Pages

Friday, January 31, 2014

“Socrates SculpturePark was an abandoned riverside landfill and illegal dumpsite until 1986 when a
coalition of artists and community members, under the leadership of artist
Mark di Suvero, transformed it into an open studio and exhibition space for
artists and a neighborhood park for local residents.”

Socrates is certainly one of the more engaging art viewing
destinations east of the East River. Di Suvero’s studio lot lurks large adjacent
to Socrates. His massive steel sentinels peer in upon the park with an
impervious, yet benevolent gaze.

A stroll through it’s relatively unimproved environs features
a landscape littered with leftover remnants of industrial detritus. Yet there
is an element of quietude that envelops the place. Hidden nooks and crannies are
scattered about, and then the grand vista of the sprawling East River, framed
by Socrates’ own little beach, contribute to a hushed contemplation at the
intersection of art, architecture and nature.

Wandering about the hardscrabble grounds is always an art
adventure. The eclectic nature of Socrates’ installations ranges from the overt
(politically as well as visually) to the nearly invisible. (As an aside to
social stratification, KennethPietrobono has interred innocuous looking plants that blend into the background scenery in
his park-wide installation Selections from the Modern
Landscapes.)

Dredging up a
1949 Dodge Power Wagon similar to one Robison used in a performance during the
Peekskill riots of 1949, the artist invokes all sorts of connotations relating
to black rural agrarian traditions, as well as a scathing indictment of racist intolerance.

Quilting installed
under a floppy awning serves as a kind of abstract bulletin board or
storefront, relating a visual throwback narrative that evokes Gees Bend
gentility.

Thrusting
across the ramshackle flatbed is a crossbeam based on a Roman battering ram,
encrusted with quilted barnacles, and mounted with the head of Paul Robison instead
of the traditional ram horns.

This
configuration could be considered in an allegorical context. Portraying
Robison’s visage as an heroic symbol may belie manipulation by Soviet
propagandists, but he was indeed a champion of civil rights, and his
voluptuously booming voice served as bullhorn for mid century black autonomy.

Although
Thompson may have overloaded Brutus Jones with polemic, I’d think that was the
point. This is art that revels in a zeal for confrontation; the artist as an impassioned
ideologue wherein agenda takes priority. Perhaps if he had embedded a more
literal historical narrative, viewers might have taken away a more succinct
perception of Thompson’s protest.

But to his
credit the artist has avoided overt agitprop, and fashioned a visually
compelling sculpture as set design that morphs in and out of stridency. Brutus
Jones could work perfectly well purely as an existential jungle jim on a
playground derived from the artist’s psyche, and encompass a notion of cultural
identity that might trump his earnest activist intent.

Thompson’s art
succeeds from an aesthetic standpoint with a kind of funky outsider look, even
though the artist received a formal education. His rejection of traditional art
media helps sustain rebel credibility that rubs up alongside a populist pundit sensibility
seen in Thompson’s predilection for performance video. His enthusiastic axing
of a podium during a performance on the Power Wagon could've been an amusing reinvention
of Who guitar smashing.

Yet I doubt
Thompson endeavors to become an art/rock star. This underground artist seems to
inhabit a nether region of the art world mostly neglected by a predominately
white collector base. As such its good to see art created by one of the precious
few African American descendents in the contemporary art scene.

I hope we will
soon be seeing more of Thompson’s uncompromisingly entertaining commentaries on
Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité.

You MyungGyun’s monumental dollop of sculpture eschews social dogma for a commentary on
nature and the moment.

This South Korean artist joins the ranks of a burgeoning movement of Asian artists that have injected a freshness of spirit
into contemporary art.

Like his
compatriot Jong Il Ma’s 2008 installation at Socrates, Gyun has made a large
scale sculpture thattransforms its bulkyarchitecture into an expansive ode to nature and contemplation.

Fabricated
from the ubiquitous blue plastic re-cycling bag, still photos don’t capture the
ethereal monochromatic flutter as the feathery plastic coat catches a breeze.
The textural nuance gained from such innocuous art supplies infuses the surface with a suppleness that transcends
the mass produced matériel.

The ponderous
form achieves a kind of lumbering grace, perhaps the way a dinosaur would graze
on the upper reaches of a tree. It’s massive frameremains connected to the
ground, yet somehow gains lift, perhaps a billowy, airy blue pillow yearning for
the sky.

TamaraJohnson’s sly brand of humor seen in A Public Pooljolts our sense
of place into a disjointed perception of where things should/could be.

She is adept at
counter-intuitive association; a pool filled with grass, density encroaching on
space, or memory impeded by distraction. There could also be a sardonic poke at
suburban largess; you can almost feel Dustin Hoffman’s alienated Graduate soul
buried in dense layers of dirt and irony.

Johnson’s work recalls
the familiar, and then alters our experience of that certain reality by
distorting an expected syntax. The concept appears simple enough, but could
only have been conceived in a minds eye dedicated to disruption. Anyone up for a
dip?

Aida Šehović’sObstacle Course: Patriot Challenge offers a rousing dose of irony and could be
symbolic of nationalist fervor. A native of Bosnia-Herzegovina,
I’d think she knows whereof she speaks concerning the dangers of ethnic
militancy.

There seems to be an interpretive intent going on, the course
is set up so that viewers can undertake their own attempts at basic training.
Perhaps this is a strategy to humanize the military mindset and help us
appreciate the individual dedication and sacrifice of those committed to making
the world a safer place.

The artist may also be expressing a cautionary morality tale
concerning the risks of social conditioning and violence as a means to an end.

Is it surprising that Thordis Adalsteinsdottir’s woodsy ode to a
love bite from nature has created such an astoundingly prudish uprising (pun
intended) among the ranks of the good citizens of Queens? Or is the old adage
that good fences make better neighbors at work here, or perhaps a case of out
of sight, out of their minds?

Another cliché may also apply; that bad
publicity is better that no publicity. Although a Chelsea gallery exhibits Adalsteinsdottir, she is by no means a household name. Revenge may be best served here
if this crudely erotic, tempest in a teapot results in her becoming better
known.

Disclaimer: I had the adventure of shipping
one of her pieces to a collector.Getting the reindeer into my truck without snapping off one of the
delicate antlers was tricky, but the beast never complained and arrived no worse
for wear.

The 2013 EAF pieces are a stimulating bunch of offbeat, oddball
selections that amuse as much as inspire. Socrates is probably one of the art
world’s most egalitarian and eclectic exhibition venues. New York’s art exhibition
hierarchy is anything but a meritocracy, so when a program like the EAF comes
along that’s not all about whom you know, authenticity and diversity have a
chance to thrive.

Post Script:

Speaking of diversity, another reason to visit Socrates is
their semi feral cat colony. They are not too skittish, and some of them will come
right up to you expecting pets.

Sunday, January 5, 2014

Kelly is a handful. This exhaustive, and exhausting memorial
compendium is akin to an art world colonoscopy. And like the medical procedure,
this exhibit examines and purges pop culture dregs inhabiting the art market’s
intestinal tract.

Kelly’s unimpeded libido meanders about pretty much
aimlessly; indulging in darkly brooding mediations on repressed memory and
trauma, then tossing in dumb trivialities like fake vomit and comic book
covers.

Was he an artist without any discernable boundaries, a dysfunctional
wild child who was never told ‘no’, exorcising his tantrums and demons? Or was it
all an act? From the Kelly Crow article in the WSJ:

“Stuffed
animals? Minutes later, a local reporter approached George (Mike Kelly’s older
brother) and asked if his little brother had ever been sexually abused. George
nearly threw a punch. Their parents were strict and so were the nuns at school,
but he knew of no such trauma. George told his brother what had happened. He
also apologized for chuckling at first glance. Kelley slapped him on the back:
"Good, it's supposed to be funny."

From then on,
the art world demanded autobiography from Kelley. Rather than quell the
scrutiny, he stepped fully into the role of provocateur—toying with critics and
waffling continually between memory and myth in his life. In an essay first
published in Architecture New York in 1996, Kelley wrote, "I had to
abandon working with stuffed animals for this reason. There was simply nothing
I could do to counter the pervasive psycho-autobiographic interpretation of
these materials. I decided, instead, to embrace the social role projected on
me, to become what people wanted me to become: a victim."

A cynical take on Kelly could be that he was corrupted by
big art largess, and ended up producing shock value schlock to generate big
returns in the inflated bubble era.

He came from a working middle-class family in Detroit MI. After
attending U of M at Ann Arbor, he got involved in the local heavy-metal punk
scene. Kelly then managed to get into CalArts, honing his conceptually
punked-out performance bad boy persona enough to get noticed by museum bigwig
Richard Armstrong, who purchased a piece out of his senior show.

Maybe it would have helped if he’d been in NY. It seems
incongruous that such an amped-up, up and coming art starwould settle in mellow LA, home of alfalfa sprout and avocado
sandwiches. Perhaps the nitty-gritty nastiness of the East Village would have
better suited histumultuous process.

But once you get past all the ranting, raving, and screaming
Mimi’s there may be still enough work of substance in this show to sustain the
image of a tortured genius, yet I believe there is also room for reasonable
doubt.

The large-scale installation Kandors is a silly, ill-conceived
(and probably over-budget in typical Hollywood style) rock opera take on
Superman’s home planet which most likely ended up padding the pockets of DC
comics, while picking the pockets of free-spending, big shot collectors who
didn’t know any better.

Remove your shoes?! Please...

Kelly’s multi-plexed and perplexing video installation, Day
Is Done, personifies all that is bothersome about the overwrought,
over-stimulated, and under-edited film loop mania saturating up-scale gallery
spaces. Particularly amateurish is the oft-repeated scene featuring a trio of slinky
leotard-clad mime ‘dancers’, prancing and gyrating about high school hallways for
no particular reason other than to flaunt cheerleader sex appeal. They could
just as well be selling used cars.

On the flip side there are the inspired stuffed-animal
assemblages, his most popular work made early on in his career. Cast-off toys,
sewn together in messy clumps, they combine a painterly palette with sculptural
mass. Seen in the installation, Deodorized Central Mass with Satellites, they
brilliantly bridge the pop/conceptual divide. These inventive pieces
encapsulate a visual playfulness within an autobiographical context, springing
from the artist’s youthful fascination with sewing and textiles.

Although the hung-from-the-ceiling aesthetic might now seem
quaint, this was an innovative concept in the day, and succinctly suits the
interaction of viewer and art object.

Kelly’s written screeds document his angst filled,
dream-like visions, and are compiled in an unhinged, Burrows-esque sketchbook
diary format. His visceral prose lends credibility to the overall context of
his oeuvre. He would have fit in well with the Beats, and their anarchic archetype.

Despite all the distractions, on occasion he managed to settle
down and harness his deft comic book illustration influenced draftsmanship
abilities. Particularly engaging are the two grey tinted night landscapes.
Depicting dreamy quietude, they seem an all too brief respite from the
cacophony.

Kelly’s inclination towards poster art and larger scale silkscreen
make good use of his blunt didactics. Text and graphics interface effectively
in the tradition of 60’s political protest with a hint of psychedelic.

His decorative skills are diligently employed in the Memory
Ware group. Glitteringly dense, these wall panels transcend the folk tradition
from which they emerged. The picture plane could almost have been poured in,
but notions of formal abstraction permeate subliminal configurations.

Black Out is a well-intended homage to the artist’s hometown
of Detroit. However, clunky execution of the clumsy looking astronaut dilutes
most of the pathos. Still, the use of Detroit River detritus is a clever
conceit. The most successful section appears as a to-scale, flyover view of
urban glass towers.

This was as close as I came to appreciating Kelly’s
architectural modeling efforts. All the foam core cutouts struck me as ill-advised
attempts at seeming relevant to minimalist architectural doctrine. I’m assuming
none of them were actually made hands-on by Kelly, and even if they were, the
whole idea comes off as pandering to some kind of suave urban planning ideology
that doesn’t seem to coincide with the artists inherently irreverent intellect.

Kelly’s over reliance on appropriated imagery comes off as
dated. Its one thing to create a montage/collage effect that resonates with irony,
but when it’s continually glommed on as a shortcut to meaningful content it
quickly becomes tiresome.

Without access to all of Gagosian’s wheelbarrows of gold,
perhaps he would have had to become more economical and efficient. Kelly was
certainly proficient and prolific, which I think is key to his experimental
prowess. However like most artists he was in dire need of an editor. I suspect
he rarely heard criticism.

Kelly may very well have been a victim, but mostly of his
own success. When fashion rules the roost, slavery is not far behind.